


the early rise of morning

by yanak324



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode-Tag: S08e03 The Long Night, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanak324/pseuds/yanak324
Summary: It’s been years since she's relied on anyone, but having him so close grips her with an almost painful desire to try, to lean on someone else for once. He seems as sturdy a choice as ever.Arya and Gendry share a quiet moment in the aftermath of the Great Battle. Spoilers for Season 8, Episode 3 - The Long Night.





	the early rise of morning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my response to critics who think the battle in episode 3 was underwhelming. The impact it had on individual characters was so incredibly clear in the amazing acting and direction. I could not resist writing an episode tag to accompany it. Also, this goes without saying, but Arya Stark is the baddest badass there ever was, and I want to be her when I grow up. Don't own anything. Enjoy!

xxx

There was a man in Braavos Arya used to see sometimes at the market. He was a merchant of sorts, and though he never made it onto her list, every time they crossed paths, she had the sense that he eventually might.

She didn’t understand what it was about him that caused her skin to break out in goose flesh and wisps of her hair to rise on the back of her neck. 

It’s not until she comes face to face with the harbinger of death that Arya realizes what it was about the man in Braavos that unnerved her so. 

His eyes. 

They were just as empty as those that stare right into her as she uses the last of her strength to drive the dagger forward.

The ice shower that explodes around her is unlike anything she’s ever seen, pelting her with shards that glint like glass in the night sky. She expects them to hurt, to slice her skin with a million little spikes, but they slide off of her without so much as a scratch. 

And then there is nothing but silence.

xxx 

She can’t stop shaking. She knows this is just the last vestiges of energy seeping from her body. 

It’s happened before – every kill, every new face – but never like this.

The dead have disintegrated around them, blanketing the Godswood with bones and ash, leaving behind nothing but silence and stillness. It amplifies just how much her hands are trembling. 

She ventures a glance at Bran, but her brother doesn’t seem remotely uneasy. Beneath the Weirwood tree, he sits untouched, unmarred.

 _Good._

She accomplished her mission.

Then, why does she feel so dull, so empty?

Arya doesn’t have much time to contemplate as Jon’s frantic shouts pierce through the silence. 

He emerges from between the piles of bodies like something of a savior, wild look in his eye and a bloodstained sword by his side. 

But alive…so very much _alive._

Arya watches as he briefly kneels by Theon’s body and then immediately bows his head, drawing his fingers across Theon’s face to shut his lifeless eyes. 

Then Jon makes his way over to her, but Arya makes no effort to meet him. It’s almost like she’s not there, like she’s a ghost, like she’s _no one_ again. 

Her body is so well trained in the act of stillness, it’s almost too much to take a step, let alone make a sound. Her hands, her hands though, they won’t stop shaking.

It’s not until Jon crushes her against him that everything snaps back into focus. In the very least, she remembers how to speak again.

“We did it,” she croaks against his chest in a voice that sounds foreign to her. 

Jon draws back just enough to meet her eye. The pride and astonishment she sees there threaten to disarm her completely. 

“No,” he says almost reverently, “you did.”

Arya doesn’t know what to say to that, so she grabs onto him again; holding tighter this time in hopes that his warmth will stave off the utter emptiness that plagues her.

She doesn’t know how long they stay like that but the absolution she’s looking for doesn’t come. The longer Jon holds her, the more her hands shake, so eventually she lets go. 

Just in time to catch a glimpse of red hair and hear the familiar bellow of the Wildling leader. 

Her heart plummets into her stomach.

She’d seen them all before, during the retreat – Tormund, the Kingslayer, Podrick – remembers exactly where everyone was before all hell broke loose. If Tormund is here, that means Gendry is not far behind…or worse, he’s not there at all and she can’t. 

She just cannot fathom...him, Sansa, Lady Brienne…

_Oh Gods_

Jon must sense the change in her, can tell the moment when these treacherous thoughts take root in her mind. 

His hands drop to her shoulders as he looks right at her, pride giving way to something like understanding. 

“Go. Sansa or I will find you when we need you.” 

She doesn’t stay to ask him how he can be so sure that their sister is even alive.

She simply doesn’t have the heart.

xxx

Arya doesn’t know how long she sits there on the cold hard snow, but the sun has fully emerged beyond the horizon when she hears the crunch of snow underfoot. 

She can recognize those footsteps anywhere. Even years later, she knows that gait as surely as she knows the sky is blue. 

Her relief is palpable, settling around her like a soft fur her mother used to cover her with on cold nights, or father lifting her into a hug with his strong, warm arms wrapped around her. 

For a split second, it feels like everything will be okay, it feels like home… 

But home makes her think of the broken castle behind her. Instead of strong, seemingly impenetrable walls, Winterfell is now held up by corpses, thousands and thousands of them, piled in heaps all around her, leaving the snow an inky black and the air stinking of death. 

By the time Gendry settles besides her, she’s frozen again – shock overtaking her body as she takes stock of her surroundings. 

In the blinding morning sun, there’s no escaping the tragedy of the long night. 

“Is that what you did it with?” 

Arya doesn’t need him to explain what he’s referring to, but when she looks down, she _is_ surprised to find the dagger still within her grasp. 

She wants to do something with it, tuck it back into her belt, or better yet, throw it as far away as she can, see if it disappears into the heaps of bone and blood surrounding them. She doesn’t want Gendry to see how shaken she is – there are still parts of her he doesn’t know, parts she’s not ready to share with him yet – maybe someday, but not today. 

She tightens her fist around the dagger in an effort to steady her hand, and nods at him. 

“Is that what you used?” she motions towards the hammer that rests on his other side.

“Aye. I may not have killed the leader of the undead but I did my damage.” 

There’s a warmness to his words, and to the small smile that accompanies them but all Arya can muster up is the twitch of her lip and a shrug. 

Gendry doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t expect him to. There’s a calm about him that feels real, authentic – the kind she’s craving for but can’t seem to find within herself. 

It’s never occurred to her to look for it elsewhere. 

It hasn’t been an option for her ever since she boarded a ship to a place that turned her into something she still can’t understand. 

It gave her the power and resolve to stare the ultimate Death in the face and say, not today, but it didn’t give her the tools she’d need for after… 

She hadn’t even known there’d be an _after_ , but there is, and it scares her more than anything ever has in her life.

Though Gendry doesn’t say anything, she can feel his eyes on her. 

It’s not uncomfortable at all. 

The longer they sit there, the more at ease she grows; until that dull ache that clawed its way through her insides starts to diminish. 

Until it’s not even there at all...replaced by something warm and steady, much like Gendry himself. 

It’s why she had come to him the night before, and why, she’s letting him stay now. 

It’s been years since she relied on anyone, no longer even holding onto the hope of seeing her siblings again, motivated only by revenge and a strong belief in her own ability to survive. 

Looking at the smith besides her, knowing that he would never judge her or ask more of her than she’s willing to give grips her with an almost painful desire to try, to perhaps look outside herself and lean on someone else for once. 

He seems as sturdy a choice as ever. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” she turns to face him because he has earned that much.

Although Gendry doesn’t appear to be confused, she wants to clarify anyway, “I know how to survive, I know how to fight, how to kill, but I don’t know how to lo-..live“

She almost says it, almost says how of course she loves him, has probably loved him since before she understood what it meant to love someone with that much depth. 

But she’s not quite there yet. 

The understanding in Gendry’s eyes, paired with the tentative way he covers her hand with his own much larger one, makes Arya wish so much that she was ready…

“It’s okay, because I do.” 

He squeezes her hand and it occurs to Arya right then that he’s cautious around her, relaxed but cautious all the same. He’s treating her with the outmost care but proper distance, like he knows exactly what she needs right now.

There’s a cut below his left eye. She wants so badly to reach out and press her lips against it, but her body seems only poised to sag further down the wall, giving into the fatigue that has coiled around every muscle. 

When he moves his hand away, she feels the loss acutely but it’s only for a moment. Then, Gendry is prying the dagger from her hand and pulling her into the crook of his arm. 

She goes willingly, perhaps too willingly, but she lacks both the resolve and desire to pull herself away. Now that he’s brought her to him, she doesn’t want to let him go. 

“Rest,” he whispers against the crown of her head, pressing her closer to him. 

And for once, Arya listens. 

xxx


End file.
